


Rehabilitation

by Naemi



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Drama, Friendship, Implied Character Death, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, mentioned forced prostitution, mentioned slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey knows he shouldn't romanticize his situation, but right now, right here in this cosy room with its clean scents, it's easy to forget that he sold his soul today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rehabilitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prisca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prisca/gifts).



 

The bedroom is tidy and the boy who shares it with Casey smells of rosemary and thyme, the same scent that clings to Casey's skin after his bath. These little details make Casey happy in spite of the circumstances. He hasn't recently known the simple luxuries of soap, a roof over his head (one sitting on four walls, that is), and company that wasn't caked with dirt from months on the street. 

His roommate hasn't said a word yet, but at least he acknowledged Casey's presence with a quick nod. It doesn't matter if he won't talk; Casey isn't used much to talking anyway, and he prefers an amicable silence over meaningless chatter any day.

From his spot on his bed—a real bed with blankets that smell of detergent and fabric softener—he can see the top of a cherry tree in full bloom outside. If they opened their tiny window, the sweet scent would be overwhelming.

It's almost funny how the one thing Casey promised his parents he would never become is not just his only option to avoid starvation, but now seems like a slice of heaven. It shouldn't be. Casey knows he shouldn't think of it that way, romanticize his situation, but right now, right here in this cosy room with its clean scents, it's easy to forget that he sold his soul today.

~ ~ ~

The impression of heaven is wiped out only a few hours later. Casey is asleep when they come for him and his roommate. He follows the men—three of them—down sparsely lit corridors without uttering a word of complaint or even asking a question, but his heart beats so fast that it seems to hammer right inside his sleepy head. His roommate is a warm presence behind him, but Casey can't find much comfort in that; other than his name (Zeke) and that he's been here “for a while,” the boy revealed nothing about himself. He might as well be on _their_ side. When Casey casts a glance over his shoulder, Zeke gives him a quick shake of the head, as if to dissipate Casey's doubts.

They descend a flight of stairs and continue through more corridors, until the men usher the boys into a small room: just a cubbyhole, barely big enough for the narrow bed inside to fit in. Casey sits. Zeke doesn't. This tight space makes his tall frame seem to tower over Casey even more. The door closes with a thud and shuts out the main source of light; what little moonlight creeps in through a tiny, barred window is hardly enough to outline any contours.

Casey shifts uncomfortably. Zeke doesn't move. An invisible clock ticks away seconds that seem like hours until Casey opens his mouth to whisper, “What now?”

“We wait,” Zeke whispers back. “And we don't talk. You don't want to know.”

“What if I do?”

Silence answers Casey's question. He isn't sure he _really_ wants to know. Whatever happens next, it won't be pleasant—and he has to face it either way.

After a while, Zeke sits down on the edge of the bed. He nudges Casey's shoulder with his own.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Um …” Blood rushes through Casey's face, and now he's happy for the absence of light in the room. 

“You are. All right. That's good.”

“How is that good?”

“Because they won't fuck you just yet. They would rather teach you all the techniques and then sell your virgin ass.”

Casey huffs. “If that's supposed to make me feel better, know that it doesn't.”

“It's what you're here for, isn't it?”

“It's not like I had a choice.”

“Who does?”

~ ~ ~

If Zeke's perception of 'good' is to endure a multitude of humiliations, Casey doesn't want to know how bad the bad will be—although he got a taste of it.

Stripping down and being groped was bearable. Even sucking dick he could handle, although his throat started to hurt after the second blowjob. But watching what they did to Zeke and knowing that soon he would be used to doing the exact same horrible things scared Casey mindless.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but the sunlight that streams through their window is piercing despite filtering through the cherry tree's branches. Facing the wall, Casey lies on his bed, and he knows without looking that Zeke is doing the same. They didn't talk after. It seems unlikely that they ever will again; Casey is way too ashamed, and Zeke is way too … indifferent.

In the hallway, footsteps pass: one person, two, a whole group chatting and laughing. Casey pulls his pillow over his head. Laughter, it seems, is the most cynical sound in a place like this.

~ ~ ~

After only two weeks of training, Casey notices the first signs of complete surrender and the same deliberate disconnection between his emotions and his his physical experiences that Zeke seems to have mastered. He's a fast learner. Casey believes this is good, but Zeke disagrees.

“The faster you learn, the earlier they'll whore you out,” he says over breakfast one morning.

Frowning, Casey pours a little more milk—real, whole milk—over his cereal. “So what? It's inevitable. Might as well get it over with and move on.”

It's Zeke's turn to frown. He opens his mouth, but then he shakes his head, remains silent.

“What?”

Zeke shrugs.

“No, really. What? Spill it.”

“I just don't think you'll move on easily is all. But you've got one thing right: It's inevitable.”

~ ~ ~

Casey is alone when Zeke heads him off in the lower corridor. In the dim light, the older boy's eyes are pools of liquid obsidian.

“We need to talk,” he says with a voice just as dark. “Somewhere … unmonitored.”

“I doubt there is—” Casey starts, but Zeke has already grabbed him by the wrist and drags him along through a hallway and down a few stairs to an area Casey has never seen before. Pipes line the concrete ceilings, and the air is stale and hot.

They stop in front of a nondescript metal door. 

“What is this place?”

“Maintenance. Of sorts.”

“But—”

Zeke cuts Casey off by pushing him through the door and into hardly penetrable darkness. Casey stumbles and would have fallen if not for some sort of barrier supporting him. It feels like a metal bar: a railing, maybe, pressing into Casey's abdomen and making him gasp. He spins around in time to see the door fall closed.

“This isn't very funny.” His voice is as shaky as his knees. Despite the darkness, he squares his shoulders and raises his chin, assumes a defiant posture. “What the hell is this all about?”

“A potential buyer will come in this weekend.” Zeke's voice sounds hollow and strangely far away.

“What?”

“Thought you might wanna discuss your options.”

The next moment, overhead lights flicker to a blinding life, making Casey blink. His eyes need a moment to adjust, and then he realizes that Zeke has led him into a small room with a platform hovering over a flight of stairs seemingly leading nowhere, for darkness swallows what lies beneath. The drone of machines sounds from somewhere below, like the constant murmur of a hundred lost souls. Shuddering, Casey hugs his arms around his chest.

“What is this place?” he asks again, incapable of parsing any information.

“You really got bigger problems than your whereabouts.” Zeke stands beside him to lean over the railing and stare down. Sighing, he runs a hand through his short hair. “This guy … he shops big time. Looks at all the boys available and always buys at least two or three. He keeps them, you know. He has like ten slaves at a time, or more. And you might well end up being one of them.”

“Does it matter? We're slaves, anyway. How much worse can it be, serving one guy instead of many? I don't see the problem.”

“Because you don't know him.” Zeke spins around so suddenly that Casey takes a step back on impulse. The older boy's features are dark and grim, unlike Casey has ever seen. “You don't know the things he does. Terrible, unspeakable things that never, never end well for the people involved.”

“And you know how?” Casey asks gently.

“I just know.” Zeke's expression softens as he sighs again: a deep, rumbling sound that heaves his chest. He turns back around to resume staring into the darkness below them.

The silence lasts so long that Casey wonders if Zeke is ever going to speak again, but he doesn't push him. Instead, he copies Zeke's posture and keeps waiting for whatever happens next. 

Eventually, Zeke faces him.

“While there's a way out of his—” Zeke waves his hand about, “—harem, there's no guarantee. Rumor has it he likes blood. Gets off on it. And I think … I _know_ … it's not just rumors. Trust me, Casey, you don't wanna be there. You don't wanna have to fight for your life in his … arena.”

The question of how Zeke knows so much about this man's habits burns the back of Casey's throat. Not wanting to say the wrong thing, rub salt into an old wound, maybe, he swallows it for now.

“What should I do?”

“The safest way not to draw any attention is to make sure others do.”

“Throw someone else under the bus?”

“Throw someone else under the bus,” Zeke confirms.

“I don't think that I can.” Casey looks from his friend into the darkness and back as he's searching for the right words. “You see … Mom always told me about life as it was _before_. Those were good stories. Comforting. I know the world will never be the same again, but … When I was little, I always imagined that I could help bring that time back. That I'd be a hero one day. That was before I came to realize that heroes are long dead. So instead of fighting for a truly good cause, I had to learn how to be a monster to survive out there. I've given up all I had, all I was. We all did. I'm sick of that. I won't let my humanity slip away from me any further. I just can't.”

Zeke snorts. “Then you're a fucking moron.”

“Maybe. But at least, I'll keep a clear conscience. As clear as can be nowadays.”

“Chivalry is just as dead as heroism, you know? They're both just as dead as everything else. As you will be.” Zeke says, and although he casts down his eyes quickly, Casey would swear he saw a telltale flicker in them.

~ ~ ~

When _the_ night arrives—his trainers refer to it as his debut, but Casey refuses to use what he deems a euphemism—Casey's initial calm threatens to crumble under the weight of anxiety.

He paces his room as the day draws to a close. The late afternoon sunlight casts a golden shine on the hardwood floor. All the blossoms in the tree outside the window have disappeared and left behind only rich green leaves. It's still a beautiful sight, but Casey misses the happy colors; they're gone just like his time of relative safety.

Deep inside, he knows that he won't return to this room. The presentiment of an imminent farewell weighs heavy on his heart, especially since Zeke has been elusive for the past few days and didn't give Casey the chance to thank him for everything he'd done for him.

When the door opens, Casey takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He turns around, ready to face whatever awaits him—and frowns as Zeke enters with two glasses and a bottle filled with an amber liquid in hands. 

“You're not what I expected,” Casey says on impulse. “I mean, I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” Zeke sets the glasses on their small table and pours two generous drinks.

“What _is_ this?”

“A doomed man's last wish.”

Casey crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I get it. You think I'm throwing my life away, and maybe I am. But can't you see—”

“Shh. Don't say any more. Just drink with me, will you? Please?” With his glass raised, Zeke looks at Casey with clouded eyes until Casey feels bare and guilty and very small in his presence. He grabs the other drink, and Zeke clinks their glasses together.

Casey takes a nip of the dark liquid. It smells strong and tastes even stronger, but although it makes him cough, he takes another sip. Warmth spreads in his belly as sharpness bites his tongue.

“They're going to get me soon, I guess,” he says when the silence lasts and his glass is half empty.

“No, they're not. You're not for sale anymore. I took care of that.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” A sudden rush of terror crawls up Casey's spine and chases away the Scotch-induced calm. “Oh my god, Zeke, what have you done?”

Avoiding Casey's gaze, Zeke turns to look out the window. His shoulders move as he empties the rest of his drink in one go. 

“Zeke?”

“It was a long journey that brought me here. While that's more or less true for everyone, it's … different with me. I used to be on the other side of this business, you know. The things I've seen … what I've been part of … I could never tell you. You would hate me even more than I already hate myself. But there was nothing I could do. I was brought up that way. And when I started to seriously question our practices, I found myself here. Father called it a lesson. I call it salvation.”

Zeke pauses, stills for a heartbeat, and then he closes the short distance between them in one step, rakes his fingers through Casey's hair, and leans down to brush their mouths together.

Although quick and light, the touch leaves a tingle on Casey's lips. His chest tightens, and then, velvet darkness embraces him.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Casey & Zeke = slave-fic = in a future world Casey is forced to sell his body and soul to survive._
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful **Moit** , who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Visit my LJ-community [Bunny Bash](http://bunnybash.livejournal.com) to leave me a prompt at any time.]
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


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